Victoria fled the garden, not to the Main House, but to the Guest House. Marcus Thorne was zipping his suitcase when she burst in.
He looked at her, and he knew. The hazy “Elena” was gone. The sharp, brilliant Victoria Vance stood in her place.
“You remember,” Marcus said quietly.
“I remember that you saved me,” Victoria said, tears streaming down her face. She walked over and took his hands–the hands that had taught her piano again, the hands that had been her “Safety” in Brooklyn. “I remember the peace you gave me. It was the only time in my life I wasn’t afraid.”
“Then come with me,” Marcus pleaded, a crack in his stoic armor. “We can go back to Italy. We can be quiet.”
Victoria shook her head slowly. She turned to the window where Leo was still playing in the grass. “I can’t leave him, Marcus. I am a mother. And that house… that house is a war zone, but it’s where my son lives.”
Marcus nodded, accepting the defeat. He kissed her forehead–a final benediction from the Guardian. “Be careful, Victoria. The storm never really leaves this place.”
He walked out, got into his car, and drove through the open gates, leaving her to face the hurricane alone.